Meant to Be
by 9mm Meg
Summary: Sequel to Let It Mean Something - Alfred's got the second chance he never dared to dream of, but no matter how in love he is, it doesn't change the fact that he might not actually know Arthur at all. USUK
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Oh here we go…

This is a sequel to my old KM de-anon, **Let It Mean Something**. If you haven't read it, you probably won't really get this fic. It might be sad and angsty, but don't worry—we've got this fic to make it better ^_^ (Also, it's not very long.) Go read it and come back.

If you've read it, you'll understand what I mean when I say this is a continuation of Epilogue 2. We're going to assume Epilogue 1 didn't happen for the purposes of this fic.

Also, I'm actually a really slow writer, which is why I like to have things mostly written before I start posting. Well… this isn't mostly written, so please be patient with me.

* * *

><p>"So… Matt."<p>

Alfred thinks of mirrors when his brother looks up at him with the same apprehensive expression he's certain is on his own face, dark blond brows drawn together above his glasses, the slight curve of his mouth hinting at a frown.

He never uses _Matt_. Not unless it's something serious, and the both of them know it.

Matthew says nothing; he only waits, drink in his hand paused halfway to his mouth, and Alfred instantly knows that he's not going to be able to do this.

"… D-did you decide if you're going back to Montreal next summer?" he asks instead, and seeing as he already knows what Matthew's reply will be, since he's already had this conversation once before, he spends the rest of it only vaguely listening, wondering if he'll ever manage to tell his twin.

Or if he even should…

* * *

><p>The club is loud and obnoxious as ever it was. There are plenty of familiar people, who are a bit more familiar now just because he's spent most of his evenings the last week sitting in this same spot at the bar, scanning each of their faces and hoping that the next one through the door will be Arthur's.<p>

He knows his science fiction, so he's already come to terms with the fact that things will not be the same this time around. It may have been brief, but the slightly extended encounter between them that first night was enough to alter this new reality or whatever it is, and after the devastating no-show, Alfred had spent Sunday night beating himself up for his ridiculous inability to keep his eyes in his head screwing this up for him.

(Of course, he's certain that there's no way in hell he could have responded in any other way than to gawk, so acceptance was the only logical reaction.)

He also knows his eighties movies, and a rather Marty McFly sort of thought had him rushing home after he was certain Arthur wouldn't turn up that night, digging through the diary to check if the 'future' entries had been changed in any way. But the 25th of September's recount remained the same, still detailing their first meeting the way it had happened the first time, still mentioning how they had run into each other the night after. He'd been a little disappointed, A) because it could have contained useful information for him, B) because the idea of seeing _more_ of Arthur's inner thought process made him giddy, and C) because he _loves_ those movies, and—seriously—how cool would that have been?

But it's been a week of unexpectedly early alarms, classes that he'd already doodled on his notebook through once before, vaguely remembered pickup games down at the park with his old baseball buddies, _no Arthur damnit_, and agonizing over whether or not he should even attempt to explain the situation to Matthew. Alfred likes to think that he's matured a bit in the last four years, and he really has, but he's never been that great at keeping secrets. His brother has already noticed the difference in him, giving him these slightly confused, appraising looks when he slips up and says something a little more rational than his 21-year-old self would have, and just laughing it off (_Geez, Mattie—have a little faith in me, bro!_) hasn't seemed to alleviate his suspicion.

God—but it would be such a relief to sit his twin down and say, "By the way, I'm actually Future Me that died in a plane crash in 2015 and randomly wound up back here a week ago. Incidentally, I would recommend _not_ dating that Natalia chick you've got the hots for." He'd brought Matthew with him to the club yesterday to try and tell him (he still had to watch for Arthur, Life-Changing Conversation to be had or not), but once Matthew had started talking about Oh Canada, his home and native land or whatever, he'd temporarily given it up as a lost cause. He still thinks that, someday, he's just going to blurt it out, or slip up so badly that Matthew can't help but notice that he's not the same person anymore, and then he'll just have to wait and see if his brother thinks he's completely lost his mind, or if he believes him.

"G and T, please."

Alfred's heart stops when the space between his stool and the next is suddenly occupied, then starts back up a million times faster when he follows the bartender's confused look to the man next to him, who rolls his (OhMaryMotherofGod _gorgeous_) green eyes and mutters _Americans_ under his breath.

"Gin and tonic?" he tries again, and this time, the bartender rolls his own eyes and starts on the drink.

It takes longer than it should for Alfred to remember that staring is not the proper course of action, but thankfully not long enough for Arthur to notice that he's doing it again. He looks back down into his glass of scotch, gives himself a quick mental pep talk (_he probably already likes you, you can be charming, don't overdo it, don't tell him he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, don't tell him his accent is sexy, don't fuck this up!_), takes a deep breath, and turns back—

Aaaand he's gone.

"Shit!"

Alfred snatches his glass off the bar and slides off his stool with as much grace as a ten-ton truck, trying to hurry after the head of scruffy blond hair easily slipping—and now disappearing—through the crowd. But the wall of bodies closes behind him, and Alfred pauses, realizing that he had no idea what he would have said if he'd caught the man anyway. He leans back on the stool, steadying himself, and tries to calm his breathing. Arthur's a drinker, right? He'll be back to the bar. Right?

Right.

* * *

><p>Somewhere between recounting the next four World Series to the exasperated bartender and telling his neighbor that he always knew those stupid Mayans would be laughing their asses off somewhere in Mexico on December 22, 2012, when the world poked its head out of bunkers and bars and churches and muttered a collective, <em>We've got to clean this mess up now, don't we<em>, Alfred realizes that, despite the fact that his alcohol tolerance is impressive in 2015, it's now 2010, and his younger body has only been beer-ponging and sipping umbrella-bearing drinks with more fruit juice than rum in them for a few months now. That, and there's a nearly empty bottle of scotch in his hand that he's using to gesture at his less than captive audience, and _why hasn't Arthur come back already?_

"Thah guy," he says, pointing when he sees Arthur and the infamous trio making their own clumsy way out the door. "Killed 'im once… Stupid. But I _love_ 'im, yaknow? Izzokay now. I can fixit."

The bartender gives him a look, but it's really two looks, because there's two of him, and Alfred sets the bottle down sideways on the bar with a splash.

"I'm drunk," he says solemnly, then, "I'ma call my brother now," and falls off his stool.

* * *

><p>"So… Al."<p>

Alfred grunts into the vinyl tabletop, turns his head sideways, and blearily looks up at Matthew, who might be smirking at him, but he can't tell with the sunlight coming in through the window painfully bright behind him.

"Who's Arthur?"

"Ugh," Alfred says, then lets his forehead hit the table again with a _thunk_.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you thank you thank you for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites! Love and hugs and snuggles for everyone~

* * *

><p>Matthew hadn't pressed the matter, and for that, Alfred is grateful. He's still not sure what he may have said during the car ride back to his apartment, but he knows that he at least mentioned Arthur—though he's fairly certain that if he'd said too much, Matthew wouldn't just be leaving it alone.<p>

Another week has passed, and Alfred is still struggling to get used to his old life. His grades will be better this time, he's sure (though the fact that he has to go through the last four semesters of his college education again makes him want to cry sometimes), and half the time, he's late for work since he can't seem to remember that he's got that part-time job at the bank again. His friends have accused him of being anti-social several times, but this whole re-do thing has turned out to be much more difficult than he'd anticipated, and he just doesn't see the appeal of running around with them every night like he used to.

It's Friday again though, and after class, work, and actually doing his homework on time, Alfred can't bring himself to go back to 1607 just to sit at the bar alone all night, waiting for the off-chance that Arthur will come in again. Instead, he decides a change of scenery would be best.

* * *

><p>The old pub is a welcome sight, quiet and cozy, though it hurts a little when the owner doesn't shake his hand with a friendly <em>Alright, Alfred? The usual, then? <em>like he used to—or would have—whatever.

It's one of those sit-wherever-you-like sort of establishments, so Alfred automatically walks back to his usual corner booth and makes himself at home. There's a menu on the table already, but he's ordered the exact same thing around once a week for the past four years now, so he doesn't bother looking—and here comes a server anyway.

"Can I get a Newcas—oh," he starts to say, but he freezes when he actually looks up.

(He thinks that, someday, his brain won't shut down like this at the mere sight of the man, but really… the evidence is suggesting otherwise thus far.)

"Oh," Arthur repeats, standing at the edge of the table, phone in hand, looking at him like he's grown another head or something (_stop staring Al!_), then looks around the room as though he's lost.

(Alfred takes the opportunity to smack himself in the face in an effort to snap out of the Arthur-induced daze.)

"Sorry," Arthur says hesitantly, turning back towards him. "I… well, it's just… I normally sit here…"

And Alfred's heart suddenly feels as though it's leapt into his throat at the thought of his own table having been Arthur's, too. All this time, and he'd never known…

… and naturally, he notices, the one night he's _not_ looking for the man is the night they just happen to meet. For the last two weeks, Alfred's been sort of trying to force things to happen the way they had the first time (he's even been prepared to give Arthur a little shove to recreate the whole bumping-into-each-other thing if necessary—just a little bitty push, of course, just to help things along—it's not like he'd hurt him or anything, geez), but now that he thinks about it, how much better is this scenario? They're in a setting where they're both comfortable, it's quiet enough for conversation, and neither has any friends around to distract them… Maybe Alfred's just been over-thinking this. Maybe better opportunities will fall into his lap all on their own, just like this one.

There's only one available table in the place, a tiny little one in the opposite corner that hasn't been cleared of its empty pint glasses and crumbs and wad of crumpled ones for the tip yet, but Arthur's eyeing it warily, so Alfred decides to speak up and take advantage of his new opportunity.

"Well, if you don't mind sharing, you can always sit with me," he says, smiling.

* * *

><p>The last fifteen minutes or so have passed with the two of them going through the customary introductory conversation (who they are, where they work, isn't this weather strange, et cetera), and just before their food had arrived a moment ago, Arthur had mentioned maybe remembering seeing Alfred outside 1607 a couple of weeks ago, and maybe he had seen him <em>inside<em> the club, too… though he wasn't sure, and he really probably hadn't, so perhaps Alfred shouldn't read too much into it, and it's not as though Arthur would have remembered him specifically, of course.

(Alfred loves the way Arthur's ears are still red.)

They both dig into their identical meals, but after a couple of moments, Arthur breaks the silence.

"So… Alfred."

It's difficult, but Alfred manages to keep calm and collected in spite of the _heavenly_ way his name just _rolls_ off of Arthur's tongue (and he'd thought just hearing him say, _Arthur Kirkland—it's a pleasure_, had been enough to short-circuit his brain), and he gives a _hm?_ through his mouthful of chicken and mushroom pie.

"Do you go to 1607 often?"

Alfred shrugs and swallows. "I have recently, but I don't really like it that much," he says. "Too loud and obnoxious, y'know?"

Arthur pauses, then lets a hint of a smile slip onto his face (Alfred's heart skips a beat), and says, "My sentiments exactly. Why do you go, then? Girlfriend drag you along or something?"

"Girlfriend… No. Not really my area."

Something flashes in those green eyes, and Alfred doesn't know if it's just Arthur taking the hint, but Arthur nods (cheeks pinking, Alfred notices) and says, "So you've got a boyfriend?"

"Nope."

"Right. Okay." Arthur nods again, reaching for his beer and taking a long drink. Before Alfred can say anything else, though, he continues, "You're unattached… Like me," and, with a rush of amusement and affection, Alfred suddenly understands why this little exchange is sounding so familiar to him.

He silently thanks his subconscious for dragging up that quoted answer and smiles across the booth, thinking back to a vague memory of imagining the very scene in front of him. Arthur meets his gaze, waiting for a response, so Alfred says, "I'm gonna assume you liked _Sherlock_ then."

The grin that spreads across Arthur's face threatens to stop his heart altogether.

* * *

><p>"Next Friday?"<p>

"Yeah! Definitely. 8-ish?"

"Sure. … And er… I suppose I might… ring you or something before then, if you don't mind…"

"Oh yeah, yeah—anytime!"

"You're welcome to do the same… if you like…"

"Sweet!"

There's a slightly awkward moment while they stand just outside the front door of the pub, with Alfred fidgeting and wishing he could think of something less moronic to say, but then Arthur gives him another half-smile and says, "Well… it's been lovely," and holds out his hand.

Alfred reaches for it, hoping his shaking won't be too obvious—then he suddenly thinks of paradoxical, space-time-continuum-ripping consequences that could possibly occur should the two of them touch, and the whole of Creation being tossed into the Void just because he had to get greedy and come back for more—

But then his fingers close around Arthur's slender palm, and the only thing that happens is a light squeeze and release, along with the realization that he'd very much like to hold Arthur's hand again.

(Then, of course, he realizes that if just them touching would destroy the universe, then there really wasn't much point in his being brought back in the first place—because isn't them getting a second chance sort of the idea of this… whatever-it-is?)

"Good night, Alfred," Arthur says, interrupting his thoughts, and he gets out what he hopes is a not-awfully-stupid-sounding _See ya later_ before Arthur gives him one last, small smile and sets off down the sidewalk towards home.

It takes several minutes after Arthur rounds the corner and disappears behind a row of townhouses for Alfred to really come to terms with how his evening has gone: He's had dinner with Arthur. He's had a nice, long conversation with Arthur in which he didn't even make himself look like an idiot (too much). He's got Arthur's number, _and_ Arthur intends to call _him_. _And_, he's got plans to see Arthur again, one week from today…

… And, he realizes with a grin, it's going to be one hell of a long week.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Ugh, how I agonized over this chapter. I hope it's not awful.

"_Girlfriend… No. Not really my area."_ This is a little nod to the first episode of the BBC series _Sherlock_, which is, naturally, on my list of Favorite Things Ever. It aired in July of 2010 in the UK, but I'm not sure about the US… Of course, I'd be willing to bet that Arthur would have found a way to watch it by August, when this fic starts, so it'd be nice and fresh on his mind still.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Seriously, people. My heart. It's yours. Divvy it up as you please. /huggles

Have a nice, long chapter, just 'cause I didn't have the heart to cut it off where I originally intended to. ^_^

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><p>For the twentieth time that day, Alfred curses his 21-year-old self's utter lack of fashion sense.<p>

"Ugh! Damnit!"

Another button-down, another brief spark of hope that all is not lost, and then… another ketchup stain.

The shirt is tossed to the floor of his closet, joining the pile of long-since-ruined clothing that's accumulated while he's rummaged for something remotely acceptable to wear. There's a basket of nice, clean t-shirts on his bed, but all of them are either emblazoned with superhero logos (too nerdy) or expensive brand names (too frat boy douche bag), and are, therefore, quite unacceptable.

But now he's down to a plain white oxford with a tear in one of the side seams, or a plaid, pearl-snap number that his grandmother in the Midwest sent him for Christmas while he was still in high school that's always been too small… So he can either look like a broke slob or a fat Okie. Fantastic.

With a groan, he collapses on his bed, thinking that next time he gets paid, a little shopping is in order—but then his phone buzzes on the pillow next to him, and he forgets all about clothes when he sees the screen.

**Arthur**  
>I've just found my copy of<br>The Silmarillion if you'd like  
>me to bring it with me this<br>evening.

He grins and starts to type out a reply, but then another message pops up:

**Arthur**  
>That is, if you still want to<br>meet tonight...

"You gotta be joking," he mutters to himself, quickly typing, _Absolutely! And that'd be great thx_, before sending it. A few moments pass before the reply comes, with Alfred anxiously drumming his fingers, then:

**Arthur**  
>Not a problem. I'll see you<br>round 8 then.

Alfred sends a smiley face, then flops back down to the mattress… then lets out a (rather manly) giggle that he'd deny were he asked about it.

… And then he remembers that he still has to find something to wear.

"Shit!"

* * *

><p>Just as Alfred's making his way toward the front door at 7:15 sharp, he hears the distinct sound of Ye Olde Key of Privilege jingling against a maple-leaf-shaped keychain as it makes its way out of his twin's pocket towards the lock.<p>

The fire escape sounds like a good plan, but then it's too late, and the door opens.

"Al—oh hey," Matthew says, then pauses, giving Alfred a confused once-over. "Where ya headed, Tex?"

Alfred frowns and looks down at himself. Of his few options, the western shirt had been the least horrible, and rolling the sleeves had hidden the fact that they were two inches too short. It was a little tight, but it didn't look that bad. … Right?

"… Is it that bad?"

Matthew shakes his head slowly, still staring at him, then apparently shakes it off. "Nah, it's fine," he says. "Seriously, though. You fixed your hair. Where are you going?"

"Um… nowhere," Alfred lies, and Matthew rolls his eyes. Should have known better… He tries, "Study group?" instead, but that doesn't get him anywhere either.

"Are you fooling around with Mei behind Yao's back again?" Matthew asks with that I'm-disappointed-in-you tone. The name doesn't ring a bell, and when he only has a vacant expression to offer as an answer, Matthew makes a disgusted noise and says, "His little sister…? The one that he expressly told you to stay away from?"

"… Oh yeah, Mei! Aw… she was cute."

"Alfred Jones. That was _two months_ ago. You're a terrible person."

"_Anyway_," Alfred cuts in, "I'm not seeing Mei, but I'm on my way out, so… y'know… See ya."

But Matthew doesn't move from the door. Instead, he crosses his arms and leans against the frame, giving Alfred that look that says he's not going to budge until he gets a satisfactory answer, the one that reminds him so much of their mother it makes his chest hurt.

Good mood sufficiently checked, Alfred lets out a sigh and takes a few steps toward his brother. "Look Mattie," he says, pushing up his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose, "I know I've had some… manwhorish tendencies in my life—" (Matthew huffs out a _some?_) "—but I swear to God, I'm over it, alright? I'm done with that. Promise."

Matthew's eyes narrow. "Alright, who is she?" he says, and Alfred groans.

What's with all the _she_ business anyway? Good lord, he's been out for what… four years, now? That's right. October 23rd, 2010. The day he finally—oh.

It's September 10th. Matthew doesn't know.

Oh.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred holds out his hands placatingly and says, "Matthew, wonderful brother that you are, I'm going to tell you something, and you are not going to freak out, okay?"

Matthew just stares, then gets a wild look in his eyes.

"If you're screwing Natalia, Al, I swear I'll fucking kill—"

"Mattie, I'm gay."

"… Oh."

* * *

><p>In the end, Alfred is only ten minutes early instead of the fifteen he was planning on, but he supposes it was worth it to be honest and open with his closest family member. Like the first time, Matthew said it wasn't a big deal to him, but, like the first time, he'd also proceeded to squeeze the life out of Alfred for three minutes straight, telling him that he'd always love him and be there for him, and now if someone broke his heart, he could totally kick the guy's ass, and then wondered aloud, <em>Oh, I should probably give this guy The Talk, eh?<em>

Alfred had delicately pried Matthew from him at that point, telling him that, no, that really wasn't necessary, because he really liked this guy, and he'd seriously hurt Matthew if he scared him away.

But now he's straightening his shirt and smoothing down his hair as he steps through the door at the White Hart (and this time, the owner gives him a nod of recognition as he walks out from a side room—progress!).

For all his punctuality, he's surprised to see that his—_their!_—booth is already half-full, the occupant fidgeting with a worn paperback, shifting it to one side, then the other, then straightening it slightly, but then Arthur notices him approaching and quickly settles into what Alfred assumes is supposed to be a nonchalant pose.

"Hey," he says, sliding into the booth, then smoothly knocks his silverware off the table when Arthur smiles back at him.

Arthur appears not to notice, saying, "Hello," and sliding the book across the table towards him. "As promised," he says, "though it still bewilders me that, as much as you say you love Tolkien, you still haven't read _The Silmarillion_."

"Well," Alfred starts, scratching at the back of his head, "I started to, once, but the really old school sort of style kinda threw me, and I gave it up."

"Ah. Well, people do take issue with that, not to mention the fact that it seems to be more Christopher Tolkien's work that his father's, but that's a debate for another day. … Anyway, how was your week?"

Alfred smiles, thinking of a failed test, a write-up at work for constant tardiness, and the fact that he'd come out to his brother not half an hour ago.

"Long," he says, and lets out an exhausted laugh.

* * *

><p>It's only been two and a half hours, but Alfred is in love.<p>

Of course, he'd known all along that he loved Arthur, he's known it for years, but now that they're sitting here talking and joking and laughing and sharing a massive piece of bread pudding (with ice cream on the side because Arthur doesn't like it, but Alfred can't live without it), everything has sort of clicked more firmly into place for him, and he can't imagine that he could have ever loved anyone like this, even if he'd eventually gotten over Arthur.

Arthur is still surprising him, though, unknowingly reminding him of the fact that he doesn't know as much about the man as he thought he did. But even the idea of Arthur playing football (soccer, whatever it is) in school and actually being good at it instead of being the adorable little bookworm he'd always imagined, or the two pints he's had making him a little more talkative than just two pints should have (he'd always assumed Arthur could hold his liquor like a champ, from the way he'd written in his journal) is only more endearing, and he's beyond ready to find out more.

Something he doesn't quite understand, however, is why Arthur has been giving him that analyzing look for the past few minutes, as though something has suddenly offended him about Alfred's face. But then, Arthur shifts his attention to somewhere a few inches above Alfred's eyebrows, and says, "That's it."

Confused, Alfred looks up, sees nothing, then looks back at Arthur, offering a questioning smile—but then Arthur's reaching across the table, muttering something about things just not looking right, and Alfred freezes when those thin fingers brush against his forehead, slide up into his hairline, and give his hair a little ruffle.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears with Arthur so close, leaning in and biting his lip in concentration. He can see each freckle dusted over Arthur's nose and high cheekbones, each blond eyelash fanned over green eyes, the golden flecks around his pupils—

And then Arthur leans back, satisfied with his work, and says, "There now. Much better."

Alfred doesn't move for a full five seconds, but then slowly turns to the mirror on the wall beside him to find his one-hundred-times-accursed cowlick standing proudly at the part in his bangs.

Arthur meets his gaze in the mirror, grinning…

Then promptly turns a rather vivid shade of pink.

* * *

><p>"I-I happen to find it sort of… charming," Arthur says, ears red and pointedly avoiding looking at the section of hair in question.<p>

Alfred groans and opens his passenger door, allowing Arthur to climb in and shutting it after him, then quickly running around to the driver's side and getting in himself.

"I'm serious," Arthur continues once he's in, fiddling with the seatbelt. "It's charming. It really is. Like your silly cowboy shirt—"

"Oh God, kill me now," Alfred mutters, letting his forehead hit the steering wheel, and Arthur laughs. "You're just making fun of me."

"Don't be dramatic, Alfred. If I wanted to make fun of you, I could go on about how clumsy you are, or your accent, or—"

"Like you have any room to talk," Alfred challenges, smirking at him before pulling out into the road. "You're the one who knocked over your glass when I said your eyebrows were cute, and don't _even_ get me started on _your_ accent, Queenie."

Turning red, Arthur huffs and crosses his arms, though Alfred can see him smiling in the side mirror. A few moments later, though, he says curiously, "Alfred… you just turned on Oak Street."

"Yeah?"

"… How did you know to turn on Oak Street?"

For a second, Alfred panics. He's known where Arthur lived since 2011, when his brother Rhys had given him the address, and he doesn't know how many times he's just driven by to take a look at the place and wave at Miss Addie out working in her flowerbeds (he had once considered renting it, but Matthew had outright forbidden it, and for once, Alfred had agreed with him after giving it a little further thought)… He hadn't even thought to ask for directions as he should have…

He hesitates, but Arthur has turned to look at him, confused, so he says, "Don't think I'm a creeper or anything, but I maybe sorta watched you walk down and around the corner last week—just to make sure you made it that far, y'know?"

Arthur stares a moment longer, but then he smirks, and it's Alfred's turn to look confused.

"Don't lie," he says, and Alfred gulps. He's ready to spill every last bit of it and beg for forgiveness, but then Arthur's grin widens.

"You were looking at my arse," he accuses.

Alfred pauses at an intersection longer than necessary, staring at Arthur… But then sees the out he's been given and latches onto it, turning to look out his window and grumbling as though he's been caught. It's (sort of) the truth.

(Partially.)

Arthur snickers, but pats his shoulder comfortingly. "It's quite alright. Though, as long as we're confessing things… I may have looked at yours, too. Possibly."

Alfred feels his own face flush, and looks over at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, just to make sure he's joking.

He's not.

"It's very nice, by the way."

And then Alfred chokes.

By the time they pull up to the curb in front of Arthur and Miss Addie's shared townhouse, both of them are laughing hard enough that Alfred has to pull off his glasses and wipe his eyes. While he's doing so, Arthur unbuckles himself, but stops short of opening the door with his hand on the latch.

"You know," he starts, messing with the buttons on the side of his phone, "I don't think I've had this much fun since I've been this side of the pond… and I don't think I've ever had a date this good in my life."

Alfred's stomach gives a pleasurable flip at the word _date_, but rather than acting like the excited teenage girl he really feels like, he grins and says, "Date, huh? But you wouldn't even let me pay."

"There's such a thing as going Dutch, you know. Besides, if we're not calling this a date, then I don't suppose I'd be inclined to do this—"

Arthur suddenly leans over and presses a quick kiss against Alfred's cheek, and it's a miracle that he doesn't melt and/or combust right there on the spot.

Arthur stays close even after he pulls away, waiting for a reaction, but all Alfred can manage to say is, "Okayit'sadate," in a slightly higher-pitched voice than usual, and Arthur gives him a grin that's borderline smirk (despite the blush on his face).

"Hm... That's what I thought," he says.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**I have to admit that I had way more fun with this than I thought I would :D

Also, I'm aware that Arthur was a little… not himself the last half of this chapter, but that was intentional. Between the alcohol and his nerves and the fact that he thinks Alfred's looking like his Prince Charming already, he may have found himself a little bolder than usual. This is going to be addressed next chapter.

And for those that don't know what I meant by a pearl snap western shirt: _i39 DOT tinypic DOT com/2i6j66u DOT jpg_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** So sorry for the lateness of this chapter! It's even longer than the last one, though, so hopefully that makes up for it…

Also, THANK YOU as usual for your unparalleled awesomeness. Every alert, fave, and especially review gives me the encouragement I need when things get a little rough (like this time!). Love you all~

* * *

><p>The next morning, Alfred is dimly aware that his phone is blaring on the nightstand next to his bed. He assumes at first that it's just his alarm, so he ignores it (naturally), but then he realizes that it's not the usual alarm tone.<p>

It's a ringtone—the only personalized one on his whole contact list.

"_Green eyes… you're the one that I wanted to find…"_

He hits the floor in a mess of twisted blanket and sheets, fighting to untangle himself and get to the phone. It's a close call, but he manages to snatch it off the table and answer it before it's too late.

"Hey!" he says, annoyed with the scratchy way his voice makes it obvious that he's just woken up.

"_Hello… How are you this morning?"_

"Great! You?"

"_Oh, fine, I suppose."_

There's silence for a moment, so Alfred tries to hurry and think of something to say, but then Arthur takes a deep breath and starts, _"Alfred, I… I'm really, very sorry,"_ and his heart sinks.

"For what?" he asks nervously.

"_For last night. I'm afraid I may have… well… come on a bit strong."_

Bewildered, Alfred intelligently replies, "Huh?"

Arthur's voice rises in pitch, almost sounding a little panicky, and he says in a rush, _"Er, I may have been too forward? Too flirtatious? Did I make you uncomfortable in any way—"_

"No, no—I get what you're saying—"

"—_because I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I'm not usually so bold, and I'd hate to have done anything to push you away so early on, because, quite frankly, you're sort of wonderful, and I—and I should probably stop speaking now."_

Alfred snorts—really and truly _snorts_—but he can't even be bothered to be embarrassed by the fact because he's too busy trying not to laugh and fluster Arthur even further. He quickly composes himself and says, "Arthur, seriously, you have nothing to worry about," his wide grin nearly audible.

"_Oh. But you seemed sort of taken aback…?"_

"Yeah, well," he says, feeling a little braver himself, "it's kinda hard to keep my cool with a hot guy coming on to me like that."

There's a spluttering noise from the other end of the line, and Alfred can't help but laugh.

"_Oh, let's be serious now."_

"I am! You're a fox! I thought my brain was gonna leak out my ears."

Arthur finally breaks down and lets out a chuckle, muttering something that sounds like _ridiculous_, and Alfred climbs back onto his bed, snuggling down into the blankets and enjoying the sound of Arthur's voice in his ear.

"_You obviously need new glasses, but I'm flattered all the same,"_ Arthur says, ignoring Alfred's _psh_ of disagreement. _"Anyway, I'm glad we seem to be on the same page. I was worried from the moment I got in last night. I didn't think I'd be able to reach you this morning either… I was sure you said you had work."_

"Oh, yeah, I do," Alfred says, paying more attention to the way he says _eye-ther_ instead of _ee-ther_.

"_Really? The bank must keep late weekend hours… It's nearly 9:15 now, isn't it?"_

And for the second time that morning, Alfred hits the floor.

"WHAT?"

* * *

><p>There's a text message waiting for Alfred after work, when he thinks it's safe to pull his phone out of his pocket (once he's all the way out to the parking lot of the bank and certain that his very angry manager isn't watching him for one more offense that would give him an excuse to fire him).<p>

**Arthur**  
>Provided you still have a<br>source of income, how  
>about I let you buy me<br>dinner next week?

Alfred grins and replies, _Sure, provided you're inclined to call it a date :)_

* * *

><p>"You look unbelievably attractive and sexy and I will love you for the rest of my life based entirely on that particular shirt that you've picked out."<p>

Alfred glares at Matthew, and Matthew glares back.

"You left out the 'charming' part," Alfred huffs, adjusting his collar and turning back to the dressing room mirror.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Matthew starts, putting on the stuffiest, old-ladyest English accent he can come up with. "You're so _awfully_ charming, Alfred! Oh, _do_ take me now!"

A brief scuffle promptly ensues, but it ends when a salesperson pokes her head around the corner and gives them a don't-make-me-call-security look, so Matthew releases Alfred from his headlock, and Alfred removes his teeth from Matthew's forearm.

(As soon as she's gone, Alfred gets in one last kick to Matthew's shin.)

"He doesn't sound like that," Alfred grumbles, unbuttoning the shirt as he heads back to his changing stall.

"You said he was British."

"Yeah, but he doesn't sound like _that_."

"'Ello guvnah?"

Alfred sticks his head out of the curtain and gives Matthew another glare. "No," he says.

A few moments later, he comes out with another shirt and another pair of slacks, and gestures at himself questioningly.

"Irresistible," Matthew deadpans.

"You're not helping, Mattie!"

From back in the stall, Alfred's phone begins to ring, but he ignores Matthew's groan at his choice of ringtone in favor of rushing back in to fish it out of the pocket of his own jeans, tossed haphazardly to the floor.

"Arthur! Hey, what's up?"

"_Hello, Alfred. Look, I have to apologize—"_

"I don't like that our phone conversations have to start this way, Arthur."

There's a pause, and then a nervous laugh, and Arthur continues, _"Yes, there does seem to be a pattern forming… But this time you may not be so pleased with me."_

"Oh?" Alfred hastily sits on the little stool and bites his lip, wondering what on earth could displease him about _Arthur_. Seriously.

"_Yes. It looks as though I'm going to have to cancel on you tonight. I've done everything I could to keep from it, but one of my friends has just had a nasty shock, and unfortunately I'm the only person in town that can babysit him."_

"… What?"

Arthur sighs. _"I know. It's dreadful timing, and, believe me, I'm not happy about it either. Apparently Francis has been chasing after the 'love of his life' for some weeks now, and today he's found out that the man is completely straight. He's not taking it well at all."_

Alfred's first thought is _ouch_, but then he realizes who they're talking about here, and a sudden, surprising wave of jealousy has him blurting out, "Francis? But you hate his guts!"

"_Well, of course, but that doesn't stop him being my friend."_

"Actually, _normally_, yeah, it sorta would."

"_Alfred,"_ Arthur says as though he's addressing a five-year-old, and, to his immense surprise, the sound of it actually grates on his nerves a little. _"It's complicated. I've known Francis a long time, and, despite the way we treat each other under normal circumstances, we've sort of looked out for one another from the start, if not begrudgingly. He'd do the same for me, as much as I hate to admit it."_

This doesn't do much to alleviate Alfred's aggravation, but he keeps it in check. Arthur's journal never had anything but negative things to say about Francis, so any sort of actual friendship between them just does not compute to him… but whatever.

"_Anyway, the fact of the matter is that I do still want to have dinner another time, if you're willing…"_

Alfred shakes off his frustration and does his best to brighten his voice back up to normal as he replies, "Oh yeah, definitely. Is tomorrow cool, or will Frankie be done with his pity party by then?"

"_That wasn't very nice,"_ Arthur says reproachfully, though the fact that he has to stifle a laugh before he says it sort of lessens the effect. _"No, I doubt he'll be anything more than a worthless, blubbering lump of French melodrama on my sofa for the next few days. Next weekend would probably be best."_

Something seems familiar about next weekend, like, recently familiar (as opposed to four-years-ago-familiar), but whoever had invited Alfred to _anything_ next weekend can just _deal_. Arthur takes precedence, no question. But then he realizes that they're talking another _week_ of waiting… It seems like forever, but before Alfred can start mentally whining about it, he remembers that he was once prepared to spend the rest of his life without ever having met the man, and seven days starts to look like less of an eternity.

"Sure," he says, and suddenly, he remembers what's going on next weekend. He quickly adds, "But I'm gonna make special plans this time, so no cancelling on me again, okay?"

"_Oh, really now? And what exactly does that entail?"_

"Allll… Come onnnnnnn," Matthew suddenly whines outside the stall, but Alfred ignores him and digs his heel into one of the size 13 Converse (_Hey, those are mine!_) sticking in under the curtain. "Ow! Damnit, Al!"

"Huh-uh. You'll just have to wait and see…"

* * *

><p>The week has passed uneventfully, and somehow, by some miracle, Alfred has now survived an entire fifteen days without a single glimpse of Arthur. By Wednesday he'd read the journal four times, and on Friday he'd even gotten halfway through <em>The Silmarillion<em> before giving up to go back and read the journal again, but, all in all, it's been mostly bearable.

But today is Saturday, finally _finally_ Saturday, and as soon as Arthur (gorgeous in his plum-colored shirt, striped tie, slim grey trousers, and cardigan folded over one arm) climbs into his passenger seat, smiles, and says, "So what's this about 'special plans'?" the two weeks of waiting suddenly seems like an adequate price to pay.

The ride over to their mystery destination (since Alfred refuses to tell) is mostly uneventful, aside from Alfred trying not to be obvious about starting at Arthur out of the corner of his eye (but _fifteen days_—come on!) and the two of them catching up on the last few days since they spoke. Apparently Francis has decided to continue gracing the world with his presence and will not be slashing his wrists in grief anytime soon ("Though we can still hope," Arthur adds), Arthur's Premier League team had done well last weekend, and he's finally taken Alfred's advice and talked to his brother James.

"How did that go?" Alfred asks interestedly.

"Not bad, considering. He only called me 'runt,' which is outright sweet for him."

"Uh… What does he normally call you?"

"Let's just say it rhymes with 'runt.'"

"Ah."

Neither says much more after that, but it's only a moment or two later that they pull up in front of a small, old theatre with a few couples milling around under the lit-up marquee.

Arthur leans down in his seat to get a look at what's playing, his breath fogging the window as he reads aloud, "_Kiss Me, Kate_?" He turns around slowly, revealing a seemingly stunned look on his face, and Alfred freezes, terrified that he's made some sort of mistake.

"Yeah. The, um, musical?" he offers. "It's really a nice little place. They do dinner before the show, and I know one of the girls in it—"

"Alfred," Arthur cuts him off, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Oh God, he's blown it.

"Yeah?" he nearly squeaks.

"Who've you been speaking to about me?"

Huh?

"I don't—I haven't—well, my brother, but—"

"No, I don't know him," Arthur interrupts again, dismissing the conversational Matthew with a wave of his hand before continuing, "Who told you that I absolutely _adore_ this musical?"

Panicked, Alfred frantically tries to remember if he'd read that somewhere in the journal, but he's almost certain that Arthur had never mentioned it… After all, when he'd called and reserved the tickets, he'd had no idea if Arthur would like his selection. He thought he probably _would_, but he wasn't _sure_…

Then he sees the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Arthur's mouth, and Alfred realizes that he has just unknowingly done really, _really_ well.

"Seriously?" he asks.

Arthur smiles.

On the way in, they have a short non-verbal disagreement about who's going to open the door for whom, but Arthur concedes with an affectionate, sighed _idiot_ and lets Alfred usher him in with all the gentlemanly charm he can muster. Their table is just barely big enough for two place settings, and, as they find when they sit down, their chairs are crammed together close enough that the sides of their legs bump under the table.

"Cozy," Alfred observes, and Arthur nods.

"Rather. Although I'm certain that was a complete accident, hm? Not pre-arranged or anything…"

Alfred gives him a sly grin.

"Oh yeah, absolutely."

* * *

><p>Dinner is delicious, the performance is engaging (though the way LoisBianca occasionally winks at Alfred from the stage is a bit embarrassing—he's pretty sure he made it clear to Angie that he wasn't interested), and as they make their way up the sidewalk to Arthur's front door, Alfred decides that tonight has been damn-near perfect.

Arthur stops at the top step, turning back towards him, and Alfred pauses a step below, unsure of how to react.

"Well," Arthur says, messing with the keys in his hand and staring somewhere in the vicinity of Alfred's left shoulder, "thank you for dinner, the show, all of that… It was brilliant."

"Yeah. That actually turned out better than I'd hoped."

Arthur smiles, meeting his eyes for just a second before looking away again, and Alfred's breath catches. They're closer than he'd realized.

"Now it looks as though I've got a lot to live up to, since next time will have to be my treat."

Next time, as in another date… There's a flutter in Alfred's chest, and he suddenly feels a little lighter on his feet, a little taller than he really is. He hadn't lied when he said this evening had gone better than he'd imagined; if anything, he'd understated the facts. He never could have dreamed of things going this well, not in a million—

It's not until Arthur's already pulled away and staring at him expectantly that Alfred registers the breath of air at the side of his nose, the tickle of coarse blond hair against his cheek, the brush of a warm mouth over his own.

Arthur kissed him.

Arthur _kissed_ him.

And he totally missed it.

One rather large eyebrow lifts questioningly as Alfred stands there gaping, mentally swearing at himself, and refraining from a spontaneous, celebratory jig of triumph all at once, and when he finally works out that he's got a tongue, vocal cords, voice, and a brain to make them all work together, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, "Um, can I have a redo?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, mutters, "Oh, I suppose," as though it's such a bother, and fixes that half-smirk on him.

This time, Alfred's ready.

His heart is pounding in his chest, and he's wondering if he won't wind up passing out over this, but he's ready. He starts to lift up on his tiptoes to make up for the few inches Arthur's got on him thanks to the stairs, but Arthur bends down to meet him halfway and presses their lips soundly together. It's not particularly gentle or soft or even sweet, but it's Arthur that's kissing him, and Alfred feels distinctly weak at the knees thinking of just how _right_ it is.

It's over all too soon, and Alfred gets the feeling that he's not the only one wishing it'd go on just a little longer as they pull apart. But for some reason, neither makes a move to bring them back together… although that could possibly have something to do with the way Alfred suddenly wobbles and has to move one foot to the step below to steady himself. (Smooth.)

Arthur doesn't seem to notice, though, and is instead staring hard at Alfred, like he's having some quick but intense mental debate—but then the look disappears, and he smiles again.

"Remind me to never cancel on you again," he says, and Alfred's urge to dance comes back with a vengeance.

They exchange brief _good night_s, Alfred works up the nerve to peck Arthur on the cheek before he slips inside, and, as he practically floats back down the sidewalk to his jeep, Alfred realizes that he'd only been halfway right earlier.

_Now_ tonight has been perfect.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This chapter… it's given me plenty of issues. The flow still sort of bugs me, but after scrapping the whole thing and starting over about twelve times, I've decided that this is as good as it's gonna get. Sorry for any mediocrity. And the wait. /holds out wrist for slapping

In other news, Al's got big feet. Who's surprised?

_Kiss Me, Kate_ is a play-within-a-play based on Shakespeare's _The Taming of the Shrew_. My (remarkably non-cultured) husband surprised me once by taking me to see it while we were dating, and, hey—it worked for him. Why not Al? ^_^

(I can't guarantee that you won't see any more of my own personal experiences in this in the future…)

Also, Angie is Seychelles, who seems to think that "her only abilities are to sing, dance, and make souvenirs," according to the Hetalia wiki. I therefore thought it fitting that she'd be in a musical.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** As usual, a million and five thank yous to everyone still following and reviewing~

* * *

><p>Alfred loves Arthur, but sometimes, he remembers that he loves other people, too.<p>

Like Matthew, who's waiting there at their usual corner in the student union with a stack of his roommate's old Calc II notes for him to borrow, or Kiku, one of his best friends, also there with three enormous, delicately-wrapped rice balls set in front of the empty chair they've saved for him.

"I love you both," he announces, pulling them into an awkward group hug that involves the table as well, but doesn't last long thanks to Matthew's indecent pinching proficiency and Kiku's uncanny ability to wiggle away from any sort of physical contact.

(One day, he'll finally accept that Alfred's just a touchy sort of person, though it's only in time for a goodbye hug before he goes back to Japan two years later.)

While Alfred dumps his backpack in the floor and attacks the plastic wrap keeping him from his salmon-furikake-stuffed lunch, Matthew pulls out his laptop and asks conversationally, "So how was your test?'

"Ahfuh," Alfred says, then swallows. "Pretty sure I failed that one."

"Perhaps you should have attended the study group last night after all," Kiku cuts in quietly, glazing over his TH's and L's with a tone of polite condescension.

Matthew lets out a _ha_ and shakes his head at his laptop screen. "Right. Like he'd put studying before a date."

"We didn't go out last night," Alfred grumbles and takes another huge bite of rice, but Kiku looks between the twins with a mildly confused expression.

"Are you in a relationship, Jones-kun?" he asks.

Before Alfred can swallow and reply, Matthew says, "Hmmm… good question. Let's find out," then quickly brings up Alfred's Facebook profile and spins the screen around so they can all see. "Oooh, still single. Why's that, Al?"

As much as he doesn't want to admit it, it _is_ a good question. He's been seeing Arthur for a little more than three weeks, though they've only had four actual dates the whole time. They're both busy, and Arthur doesn't ever suggest meeting during the week, so Alfred's sort of assumed that it's off-limits. And as far as his 'relationship status' goes (damn you, Facebook, for making things difficult), he hasn't even thought about it. He belongs to Arthur completely as far as he's concerned…

"What's his last name?" Matthew asks, clicking on the search box, and Alfred suddenly wonders just how _Arthur_ feels about the idea.

"He… he doesn't have one," he says, distracted by the thought. Does Arthur think they've got something going on, like, officially? Or does he think it's just been some casual fling—because, oh God, that's exactly what it looks like, now that he thinks about it… What if he's seeing other people aside from Alfred? What if he's out with someone else _right now_? Is that why he never wants to meet during the week?

"He doesn't have a _last name_?"

Alfred snatches the computer away from him, snapping, "No, stupid. A Facebook." Regardless, he types _Arthur Kirkland_ in anyway and scrolls through all of the results, wondering if he'd missed it somehow. Arthur had told him that he didn't bother with social sites and all the drama that came with them (and, naturally, Alfred had looked for him anyway), but (just like the first time) he comes up with nothing.

Frustrated, he snaps the lid shut (ignoring Matthew's complaint of unnecessary roughness), and leans back in his chair… then stuffs half a rice ball in his mouth on second thought.

After a meaningful look between him and Kiku, Matthew pulls his laptop back in front of him and asks in a cautious voice, "So… Al. You've been 'dating' for how long?"

"Freh wehks," he answers around his mouthful.

"And are you actually 'together,' or what?"

Alfred shrugs.

"Would you _like_ to be?"

Alfred nods vehemently.

"And what about him?"

Alfred shrugs again.

"Perhaps you should ask his opinion," Kiku suggests.

While that would be lovely, Alfred isn't quite sure how he'd go about it… He could always just send Arthur a _will you be my boyfriend_ text, but that seems a little blunt—but _wait!_

Matthew and Kiku give him strange looks as he frantically pats himself down, looking for his phone, but then he finds it and whips it out with a flourish. He quickly types out a message and sends it before he can second-guess himself.

"Gimme that," he says, snatching the computer back and going back to Facebook. He logs Matthew out and logs himself in, then drums his fingers on the keyboard while he waits for a response.

"What did you send?" Kiku asks, and Matthew looks at him expectantly, too.

"I told him I was updating my Facebook profile if there was anything on there he thought I should change."

Both of them stare at him blankly (well, more blankly than usual in Kiku's case), but before he can defend his brilliance, his phone buzzes on the table.

**Arthur**  
>... I wouldn't begin to have<br>an idea. I haven't got one,  
>remember?<p>

Alfred thinks on it for a moment, then texts back, _Well there's interests and activities and music and stuff... relationship status... that sort of thing._

"What'd he say?" Matthew asks, but Alfred holds up a finger.

"Working on it. Shush."

**Arthur**  
>I see. Have your interests,<br>activities, musical tastes,  
>or relationship status<br>changed recently...?

"Ugh, take the hint!" Alfred mutters. How can he do this without making himself look like an idiot? _Not really on the first 3 but I was kinda hoping you could help me out with the last one_, he tries.

There's an uncomfortably long pause, so Matthew leans over the table to read the messages while they wait ("I knew he wouldn't get it," he comments, and Alfred gives him a glare). But just when Alfred starts thinking that this was a terrible idea and he's ruined everything and now Arthur's going to hate him but—but it's okay because Arthur will get to live this time and that would be worth the heartbreak—his phone starts playing "Green Eyes," and he practically jumps over the next table trying to get out of earshot of Matthew and Kiku before he answers it.

"H-hey," he says weakly, hoping Arthur will at least let him down easy.

"_Hello. You know, all this beating around the bush will get you nowhere, Alfred."_

"Um."

"_Subtlety doesn't really work for you. Go on, now. Out with it."_

Maybe he should have been blunt after all… Alfred drags a hand through his hair, trying to think of how to word what he wants go say, and then he catches sight of Matthew and Kiku watching him expectantly, so he turns around so that they can't read his lips.

"Well, here's the thing," he starts. "I… really _really_ like you, and… well, I really really like what we've got going on here, so… I was kinda thinking we could, I dunno… make it sorta official? I mean, if you want to, of course. I don't know how you feel about the whole thing, and I guess I shoulda asked you that first, but I'm not, y'know, seeing anybody else or anything, and I thought that—if you wanted to—we could make it an exclusive, sort of boyfriendy thing?"

Silence follows for what feels like an eternity, and he's about to apologize for everything he's just said and the million things he hasn't, but then there's an odd noise on the other end of the line that gradually starts to sound like a muffled laugh and simultaneous throat-clearing.

Fantastic. Now Arthur's laughing at him.

He starts to backtrack, "O-or not… I mean—" but then Arthur cuts him off.

"_No, no—wait,"_ he says, and Alfred wisely decides to keep his mouth shut and let him continue (besides, he's not sure that he'd be able to form a coherent sentence if he tried). _"I'm sorry, it's just… you're ridiculously adorable—not that you'll ever hear me tell you that again. But to answer your question… yes."_

"Yes?"

"_Yes. To making things official, exclusive… 'boyfriendy'… however you'd like to word it."_

"Seriously?"

Arthur lets out an exasperated sort of laugh and says, _"Oh, just update your Facebook already, idiot. Relationship status and all."_

Alfred does an impromptu, wiggly dance move, then contains himself and says with a grin that threatens to stick to his face permanently, "Hey, I might be an idiot, but I'm _your_ idiot now."

"_And oh, Heaven help me," _Arthur says._ "But I'm actually at the end of my very short lunch break now, so I'll have to let you go. I'll text you later, yeah?"_

The goodbyes are quick (and a little chirpy-sounding in Alfred's case), and once he gets back to the table, he happily checks the _In a Relationship_ box on his Facebook and scarfs down what's left of his lunch. No one says anything for a while, Matthew content to shake his head at his brother and take his laptop back, and Alfred too blissed out to care about anything but the fact that Arthur is his boyfriend (holy—Arthur's his _boyfriend_ now!), but then Kiku breaks the silence and jerks him out of his happy little daze.

"It is strange," he observes serenely, by now in the process of leveling up some Pokemon or another on his DS. "I was not aware of your sexual preference, Jones-kun."

Matthew snorts, but Alfred smiles at Kiku, says, "Yeah, sorry. Forgot to tell you," and then shoves his brother out of his chair.

* * *

><p>Arthur has been his boyfriend for eleven days (officially speaking), and Alfred has decided to not stop counting until he gets to one million. (And, yes, he realizes that this will take nearly 2,740 years. That's the point.)<p>

"Oooh, nice place," he comments, following Arthur through his front door and looking around. It's cozy, clean… Arthury… right down to the two solid walls of completely full bookshelves in the living room and the worn, Union Jack-printed throw pillow on the equally worn, but clearly loved, armchair.

"Not particularly, but I make do," Arthur says. "Why don't you have a seat, and I'll go find that CD. Can't have you downloading things illegally…"

Alfred does as he's told, taking the opportunity to get comfy on the couch and using his new vantage point to peek into Arthur's bedroom after him, but he doesn't see much of anything before Arthur closes the door halfway in order to open the closet door just behind it. He turns his attentions instead to what he can see of the kitchen (equally clean, with an electric kettle on the counter top and a rather flowery dishtowel draped over the oven door handle) along with the tiny dining space with one cut red rose in a vase on the small table… and he can't help but think how strange it would be if it were the same flower in the picture Miss Addie had given him. She'd never said when it was taken, after all…

"Here we are," Arthur says, startling him by suddenly appearing at the end of the sofa. "I'm sure you'll just copy it, but at least this way you won't be exposed to potential viruses and porn site adverts."

"Sounds like someone's been doing a little torrenting himself," Alfred says with a sly grin, and Arthur smacks him upside the head with the CD case and plops down on the cushion next to him.

"How else was I supposed to watch _Sherlock_ without waiting an eternity? BBC America is awful," he grumbles. "Still haven't gotten rid of that Trojan, though…"

While he's talking, Arthur fidgets around like he's trying to get comfortable, and in the process, he manages to scoot across the dividing line between the seat cushions and right up against Alfred's side. When it becomes obvious that he's not going to move, but he's not going to acknowledge how close they are either, Alfred decides to take a little initiative and casually (at least, he hopes casually) drops an arm over Arthur's shoulders.

Arthur turns to look at him questioningly, raising an eyebrow in what almost looks like a challenge, so Alfred takes him on and ducks in for a quick kiss. But when he pulls back, Arthur's still got that is-that-the-best-you-can-do look on his face.

The answer is no, of course.

Alfred moves down and pulls him up by his collar simultaneously, trying to avoid jabbing Arthur's eye out with the corner of his glasses but still ensuring the kiss is firm enough to let the man know he means it and maybe even leave _him_ a little breathless for a change. It doesn't seem to do the job properly, though, because instead of swooning, Arthur takes a little more initiative himself, tangling his fingers in Alfred's hair and forcibly angling his head to the side so that their mouths fit together more snugly. Alfred is a little stunned at first, but then he realizes that he's kissing Arthur, Arthur's kissing back, _and_ he seems to be enjoying himself—and and and _oh_—

The quiet hum of surprise he lets out as Arthur's tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip seems to act like some sort of stimulus, because he can't even think about responding in kind before Arthur jerks away and shoves him backwards against the arm of the couch. He doesn't get a chance to catch his breath before it's stolen from him, Arthur all but crawling into his lap to kiss him again.

(Very carefully, Alfred manages to find his other hand around the back of Arthur's head, and he pinches himself, hard.)

(Yep, this is real.)

Arthur's elbow is digging into his ribcage, he tastes like curry from dinner, popcorn from the movie, and something else vaguely unpleasant that Alfred can't identify, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Alfred's subconscious is telling him that this is probably happening way too fast… but he doesn't give a _shit_ right now. Not with that (slightly worryingly) talented tongue in his mouth, the hand working its way up his thigh, the hitch in both their breathing patterns when they work out whose legs are going where, and—

"Arthur! Oh, mon ami, I have horrible news!"

Arthur lands in the floor with a squawked curse that Alfred can't quite make out (but he thinks he heard the words _bloody _and _frog_ in there somewhere), and the source of the interruption appears around the corner of the entryway just as the front door slams behind him.

"It's just horrible, I—"

Francis stops midsentence, taking in Alfred's messy hair, crooked glasses, spit-shiny lips, then Arthur's equally disheveled appearance as he pulls himself up by the edge of the coffee table and shouts, "DAMNIT FRANCIS, I'LL KILL—"

He doesn't get to finish the threat, however, because Francis staggers back into a bookshelf and cries, "Oh my sweet Mathieu! All this time you say you do not want a man and shatter my heart to tiny little pieces… and now you betray me with this rosbif?"

"Who the hell is Mathieu?" Arthur demands, turning back to Alfred for an answer, and the reality of the situation hits Alfred like a ton of bricks. The straight guy, the one that rejected him, the one that he's been chasing after for weeks…

"Oh God," is all he can say, horrified and disgusted and thinking that, if he didn't want to physically harm Francis before, that has _changed_.

"This beautiful man! He is, of course, my Ma—oh. You are not my Mathieu at all." Francis pauses, then takes a few steps forward, looking at Alfred intently, but then his eyes grow wide and he gasps, "Sacre—_twins_?"

The look on his face evolves from somewhere in the surprised range to somewhere more on the perverted end of the spectrum, and Alfred cringes and groans, "Oh God," again.

From the floor, Arthur chimes in with a little _oh_ noise of his own, and he looks up at Alfred with reddening cheeks and says, "You never said Matthew was your _twin_…"

"Not you, too!"

"Sorry," Arthur mumbles, looking away but still rather pink. "It's just… _Twins_…"

"I would love to, how do you say… _compare_ the two of you more closely," Francis cuts in, but Arthur kicks him in the back of the knee and scrambles back up onto the couch.

"Absolutely not. Now explain why you just barged into my apartment unannounced, and then kindly get the fuck out."

The change is instantaneous. Francis's face contorts into something miserable, his eyes well up with tears, and he collapses onto the sofa, planting himself directly between the two of them and then latching onto a very confused and potentially violent Alfred.

"It is your brother, mon cher," he sobs into Alfred's shoulder. "Once again I have bared my heart to him—"

"Likely more than just your heart, you pervert," Arthur comments.

"—and once again he has trampled on it as though it meant nothing."

"Pity he didn't trample your nether bits, too."

Alfred feels zero sympathy. "He's not gay, and he obviously doesn't like you. Get over it and leave him alone," he grumbles, prying the rather grabby hands off of him, but Francis only reattaches himself to Arthur instead, and Alfred immediately thinks that he could have dealt with Francis on him a little longer.

"This is all very sad and pathetic," Arthur sighs in exasperation, "but why aren't you bothering Antonio or Gilbert or someone who cares?"

"They did not answer their phones, and I do not have spare keys for their apartments." He holds up a key for emphasis, and Arthur snatches it out of his hand.

"And now you no longer have a key for mine either. Congratulations."

At that, Francis lets out what sounds like the most genuine whimper Alfred's heard yet and whines, "But I am in such pain! You are too cruel…" He buries his face in Arthur's chest, and to Alfred's intense shock, Arthur only sighs and pats him on the head.

"Fine, fine. You can keep the damned key," he mutters, then looks up at Alfred with an apologetic expression.

Alfred does not like where this is going.

"I'm sorry, Alfred. Perhaps we should call it a night. This is likely to take hours…"

And for the second time, Arthur has ditched him for a heartbroken Francis, who wouldn't even be clinging to his boyfriend if it weren't for his brother.

He really needs to have a talk with someone.

Hell, he should talk to all three of them.

Arthur sees him to the door, and once they're out of sight of the living room, Alfred finds that his (slight—only slight) jealousy has made him a little more assertive, so he pulls Arthur close and gives him a brief, intense look that he hopes says something along the lines of _I might be leaving now, but I'm sure as hell coming back_, then kisses him like it's the last thing he'll ever do (and the throaty noise that Arthur makes is more than a little satisfying).

When they separate, Arthur mutters, "Christ, how I hate Francis," and Alfred does his best to keep his probably very cheeky grin in check.

"Yeah, me too," he says.

Arthur gives him a little shove toward the door, laughing. "Go on before I change my mind, luv," he says, and his unexpected use of the pet name sends Alfred's stomach into a series of happy little flips. It probably doesn't mean much of anything, just Arthur being Arthur and using another Englishism, but it still leaves him feeling much better than he had a moment ago, much less jealous and possessive. He's willing to bet Arthur doesn't call anybody else _luv_, after all…

After another quick kiss or two and reluctant goodbyes, Alfred finally makes his way down the stairs.

Just when he's reached the bottom, though, Arthur calls after him, "Oh, and tell your brother that if I have to deal with this again, I'll tell Francis he's probably just playing hard-to-get."

With a laugh, Alfred yells back, "Yeah, well, tell Francis that if I get kicked out 'cause of him again, I'll tell Mattie what he said about us being twins right after he gets done with hockey practice."

Arthur contemplates this for a moment, then grins a little dangerously. "Perhaps you ought to do that anyway," he says, "but call me first so I can be there for it."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Another long chapter… Guess that's looking like a permanent thing now. Oh well!

Again, thank ol' Hubby for the I'm-updating-my-Facebook-what-should-I-change thing. Gah, he's such a dork. (Sometimes I think he's more my Alfred than my Arthur, but then I have to tweeze his brows and put up with his grumpiness…)

Not a lot of notes for this chapter, but be advised that the individual chapter rating is likely to get bumped up next time…

(Hon hon hon…)


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Alright. This is late. I know. Like, twice-as-long late. I'M SORRY.

Also, I've got good news, and I've got bad news. We'll go bad news first 'cause I like to end it on a high note. Just how I roll.

**BAD NEWS: **I do a whole lot of writing at work, and apparently, I didn't realize just _how_ much. A lot of this chapter happened on my iPad during my lunch breaks, but I can't really guarantee that will work all the time. And the thing is, if I can't write at work, it takes me waaaaay longer, and as it's officially no longer appropriate for me to work on this particular story at work, future chapters are probably gonna take longer.

**GOOD NEWS:** _It's officially no longer appropriate for me to work on this particular story at work. _

(elbowelbowwinkwink)

* * *

><p>In the four years after Alfred had finally come to terms with how he felt about the man he'd accidentally killed, he'd taken up quite a few hobbies in an attempt to keep his hands and mind occupied. If he wasn't rock climbing, hacking gaming systems, modeling for an art class at his university, or any one of the dozens of other things he did outside of work and Skyping Matthew (who had moved back to Montreal once Alfred had finally started showing signs of a recovery), it was all too easy for him to fall into thoughts of how things might have been, what he could have done differently… and every time he did, it ended poorly with either a call to his brother, a long, expensive trip to the White Hart, or both.<p>

The decision was made fairly early on that he would eventually make it over to the UK to visit Arthur's grave, but he took his time in saving up for it and making plans, staying busy with finishing school, getting into a professional career, and, at the same time, focusing on his long series of extracurricular activities. Matthew (and the therapist he'd finally gone to talk to a few times) agreed that it was better that way, that spreading out his focus would help him keep a solid grasp on his emotional stability. So he did.

And then, once he felt he was ready, he politely ignored both of them and their emphatic suggestions to not go through with it, and took a week of vacation in February 2015.

He'd known then that it was the right thing to do, and now, two months later (actual duration-wise), he still thinks of it with a rather told-you-so sort of attitude. Of course, neither one of them could have predicted the outcome of his trip across the Atlantic (though they'd warned him of several things: nervous breakdown, suicide, transference of his emotional/romantic attentions to Rhys Kirkland as a substitute for his brother, etc), so he supposes he can't really fault them for trying to look out for him.

But Alfred is still grateful for the opportunity to get a grip on his sanity… as well as certain other benefits from his formerly busy lifestyle.

Tonight in particular, he's thankful for the six months of cooking lessons.

His veal Marengo is simmering away on the stove (after a trip to the grocery store that left his wallet considerably lighter), a bowl of sliced strawberries coated in sugar and white balsamic vinegar is chilling in the fridge, and he's chopping up a handful of arugula for the salad, wondering how he ever lived with such a crappy chef's knife. Arthur's due to arrive in about—he pulls his phone out to check the time—five minutes, so he's doing good schedule-wise… and oh hey, look. He's got emails.

The first is a Facebook message from Elizabeta (_In a relationship, huh? Am I invited this time?_), and he deletes it with a shudder and a distinct lack of reply before moving onto the next. It's from his English professor, and, as he skims over it for potentially important information, a few key words pop out at him. _Disappointed_ and _very_ are a couple, then _missing assignments_, _failing_, and _no choice_… Alfred suddenly feels slightly ill, and he reads through the message three more times trying to find better news that simply isn't there. Missing assignments…? Well, there had been that one paper he'd forgotten, that's true, and there might have been some short stories he was supposed to read, and… and… but he's just been so _distracted_…

As Alfred realizes just how many calculus tests and business quizzes and homework assignments he's failed, he begins to finally understand just how in trouble he is.

But there's a sudden knock at the front door, so Alfred does his best to forget about it for the time being, putting his phone on silent and tossing it into his bedroom before going to answer the door… and, at the sight of Arthur, standing there with a bottle of wine and his perfect little half-grin, Alfred finds that, really, it's not so hard to smile back convincingly.

* * *

><p>Despite the sort of amazing way the evening has gone so far, Alfred hasn't been able to really appreciate his successful cooking venture, the movie they popped in the DVD player, the now-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of them, or even Arthur's arm stretched over his shoulders (though he'd actually had to slump down in his seat on the couch a little to make that happen). The initial boost in his mood just from Arthur being within touching distance had lasted through the first half of dinner, but once Arthur had asked him how school was going, he'd started thinking about it again, and he hasn't been able to shake that nagging, uncomfortable weight since.<p>

It was supposed to be easier this time around… He's taken the classes before, sure, but… then again, it's been _years_, and he's always been more of a cram-the-night-before-and-pass-the-test-but-not-learn-a-damn-thing kind of guy. What he _really_ can't understand is how he's let it get this bad without noticing… And now he has no idea what he's going to do to fix it. He supposes he could email the professor back and see if there's any kind of extra credit thing he could do to help make up his grade… but what if the professor's not feeling generous? And what about all his other classes? He's going to have to look into those and see if he's failing them just as badly, too…

And, God… if he fails them, he'll have to pay for them all over again. It was hard enough making it through school the first time, and now he's been spending all kinds of money he hadn't spent before, taking Arthur out, buying new clothes just to impress him… not to mention the cash he wasted at 1607, just sitting there for days, drinking and waiting for Arthur to show. He hates the very idea of it, but he might even wind up having to call his father to beg—

"Something the matter?" Arthur asks quietly, and Alfred notices how tense he's gotten, his hands clenched into fists at his sides and jaw set.

He immediately tries to loosen himself back up, shaking his head and relaxing back into Arthur's shoulder. "Nah," he lies. "It's cool."

Arthur lets it go, attention going back to the movie, and Alfred's a little shocked to see how far they are into it. Last he remembered, they were in the central, everything-is-happy-fun-times stage of the story, and now they're already coming up on the climax. He must have been spaced out for a good half-hour…

But he's not going to think about it anymore, he decides, since Arthur doesn't need to worry about any of that, so he settles in and lets the soft rise and fall of Arthur's chest calm him. It does the trick for a few moments, but then Arthur moves around and starts combing his fingers through the hair at the back of Alfred's head, and that does the job _way_ better. Combined with the wine and the steady breeze from the ceiling fan, it doesn't take long before he forgets the movie altogether and nuzzles his face into Arthur's neck, thinking that he could probably fall asleep this way, if it weren't for the idea of him sitting here _snuggling_ with Arthur making him giddy.

Arthur shifts again, pressing his cheek to the top of his head and dropping his arm back to Alfred's shoulders, and Alfred nudges his face a little further into Arthur's collar, breathing in the smell of his aftershave and feeling the faint throb of his pulse at the tip of his nose… And then it hits him, suddenly sinking in for the first time in the two months since he's been back.

Arthur is alive, breathing, and somehow _his_. He still doesn't understand how it happened or why, but now, after those torturous years of trying to cope with what he'd done and wondering how on earth he was going to make it through the rest of his life alone… it doesn't matter anymore, because here Arthur sits, heart beating strong and steady against his shoulder and breath stirring his hair.

Without thinking, Alfred presses his lips to Arthur's throat, just over the pulse point, as if he's thanking it for existing in the first place. He's a little surprised at the way his heartbeat speeds up at the contact, Arthur's arm tightening around him, so he does it again, and, again, there's a little flutter in his heart rate, a squeeze of his fingers around Alfred's bicep… so he does it once more, closing his eyes and pressing harder, parting his lips against Arthur's neck and letting his teeth graze over the skin lightly, and this time, he feels the vibration of Arthur's vocal cords as he quietly mutters, "Christ, Alfred," and turns to kiss him.

It's soft and slow and so, so good, and Alfred lets Arthur take over, content to lose himself in the feel of Arthur's lips on his, his breath against his cheek, his fingers brushing over his jawline and pausing at a little patch of stubble he must have missed shaving that morning… And he doesn't know what he's done to deserve this, but, as Arthur tilts his head to deepen the kiss and grabs ahold of Alfred's useless hands to guide them to his waist, he thinks that he'd go through all of that pain and heartbreak again in a second if it meant having Arthur next to him for just a moment more.

It takes a little while for it to occur to him that he should probably be doing something besides just sitting here letting Arthur kiss the sense out of him, but once it does, he quickly lets his hands wander over Arthur's back and sides, feeling every rib and lean muscle under his fingertips, and thoroughly enjoying the little noises Arthur makes against his mouth as he does so. It had started out soft and affectionate, but it's rapidly turning into something more as the kisses grow more demanding and breathing becomes more difficult. As the pace picks up, Arthur suddenly moves to straddle him, and (in between thinking that his brain may actually, literally implode and noticing that same weird, almost-bitter taste on Arthur's tongue again) Alfred vaguely wonders where this whole thing is going.

His answer comes when one of Arthur's hands takes a detour from its previous path (up his arm, over his shoulder, across his chest, then back the way it came) and eagerly slides down his stomach, and Alfred is pretty sure he understands _exactly_ where Arthur intends for things to go.

But what shocks him more than Arthur being so proactive in getting there, though, is a sudden revelation that leaves him more than a little dumbfounded:

He's not ready for this.

Physically? Oh, absolutely. But mentally, emotionally—

"_Shit_," he gasps as Arthur palms him through his jeans, the sensation making a very persuasive argument for just letting Arthur have what Arthur wants, but… but he just _can't_… and then Arthur moves his mouth to Alfred's neck, all lips and tongue and teeth, and he can't help the muffled, throaty noise he lets out… so Arthur presses harder with the heel of his hand, and, good _God_, it's fucking fantastic—but it's just too _soon_…

The fly of his jeans is opened while he hesitates, but before Arthur can do anything else to change his mind on the subject, he rallies up what little is left of his self-control and pries his hands out of their death grip on Arthur's hips, moving them to his shoulders and shoving him back as gently as he can. It's apparently a little rougher and a little more abrupt than he'd meant, though, because Arthur swears and latches onto his forearms like he'll tip backwards into the coffee table (but Heaven help him, he would _never_ drop Arthur).

"The _hell_—" he starts, but Alfred cuts him off with a pleading look.

"Wait," he breathes raggedly. "Please, just wait a sec…"

Arthur's expression goes from angry to confused, but he doesn't say a word, apparently waiting on Alfred to explain himself. The problem with that, of course, is how he's going to go about doing it.

"Sorry," he starts, easing his grasp on Arthur's shoulders and rubbing them apologetically. "It's just… things are moving kinda fast, y'know?"

Arthur stares, but then says quietly and in a too-level voice, "You said I had nothing to worry about… that I wasn't putting you off or being too forward."

"That—that was over a kiss on the cheek, Arthur!"

Alfred tries to tone down the growing tension with a nervous laugh attached, but Arthur doesn't smile and say, _Oh, you're right, luv. Silly me. Let's take this slow and fall in love properly_. He only sits up straighter and continues in that unnerving, even tone, "What was tonight all about, then? The romantic evening in, the nice dinner, the kissing on the couch…?"

Alfred lets his hands fall to his side, trying to think of an answer. He really hadn't thought that far ahead while making plans… "I don't know… I just wanted to spend some time with you, I guess… I'm sorry if I—"

But Arthur cuts him off, the volume of his voice rising and his posture going even more rigid as he asks, "If you _what_?" and despite the dim lighting from the TV, Alfred can see his ears and cheeks going red. Shit… If Arthur had been that flustered over that stupid little peck on the cheek, he should have known that this would embarrass the hell out of him.

"Gah, I don't know… but I'm really sorry—"

"Have I done something to offend you?"

"What? No! You're freaking perfect—"

"Are you just not attracted to me?"

"Don't be ridiculous! If you'd just let me expl—"

"What's the issue, then?" Arthur demands, and it's all Alfred can do to keep from grabbing him and shaking him in frustration.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you!"

"Well I wish you would," Arthur interjects.

Alfred has never _ever_ had a negative thought about Arthur, but he's not about to start now, so he takes a deep breath and speaks as calmly as he can.

"Look," he starts, trying to keep his growing ang—_frustration_ (he's not mad, he's not mad, he shouldn't be mad) in check, and Arthur finally gets out of his lap to sit gingerly on the edge of the cushion beside him. "I just don't want to rush into anything, alright? I'm sorry I didn't figure that out sooner, and I'm sorry for leading you on or whatever, but I just don't want to mess things up between us."

Arthur scoffs, muttering irritably, "Yes, well, there's no risk of that now, is there," and crossing his arms.

Alfred ignores the sarcasm and presses on, still sort of winging it and trying to figure it out for himself as he goes. "Seriously, Arthur," he says, gesturing for emphasis, "you have no idea how much I'd love to just… let this go where it will, but… but I've done that before, damnit, and it's just… I kinda want to wait, y'know? I don't want to make a mistake… N-not that it would necessarily be a mistake…"

The glare he receives could be a little deserved, he supposes, and he groans in frustration and cautiously rests a hand on Arthur's knee. When he's certain he'll get it back in one piece, he squeezes reassuringly and continues, "I lo—_like_ you, like, a freaking ton, alright? I like what we've got here. And I don't want this to just be some… I dunno… some quick fuck on the couch. When we get to that point—not fucking on the couch, though I'd totally be up for that eventually—" Arthur glares a little harder, so Alfred moves on "—_any_way, I want it to actually… well, _mean_ something, y'know?"

He doesn't notice his particular choice of words at first, but the way Arthur suddenly looks away, apparently finding the hand on his knee particularly interesting, draws his attention to what he said. He doesn't know if he's done well or messed up, though, so he keeps quiet for the moment, letting the forgotten movie's DVD menu music loop through its cycle a few times.

Finally, Arthur puts a hand on top of his, but before Alfred can get his hopes up, his hand is delicately removed from Arthur's leg and deposited back into his own lap. He starts to feel sick again, not because he regrets what he said (the general gist of it—he wishes he'd left out the part about the fucking on the couch), but because he _doesn't_. He knows in his gut it was the right thing, but even though he listened to his conscience, it's still turned out badly.

"I believe I understand what you're trying to say," Arthur says quietly, "but I would appreciate some time to think on it. It's not something I've heard much of, after all."

Alfred nods, keeping his mouth firmly shut, and Arthur nods as well, standing up slowly and straightening his shirt. He doesn't say anything else; he only leaves a hesitant kiss on the top of Alfred's head and finds his own way out, and as soon as the door closes behind him, Alfred immediately wishes he'd offered to drive him home, or at least walked him down to the bus stop at the corner, since he probably would have refused the ride.

It's too late though, and he hopes intensely it's the only thing past fixing.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** What I said earlier about ending things on a high note? Yeah. Oops…?

As many of you have predicted, we are now coming out of the central, everything-is-happy-fun-times stage of the story and into the inevitable drama. I want you all to keep in the back of your mind, however, that the ending is scheduled to be a happy one. It's just going to take some doing to get there.

Also, I meant what I said about work-appropriateness earlier, so consider yourself spoiled when I say that they'll get over this little speed bump.

Last but most certainly not least, THANK YOU to everyone for reading and being patient with me. I love you all.


End file.
